of them from
Pollokshields?'

'Yes; but you know we ought to have gone to ask for Aunt Margaret long
ago.'

'I suppose so. We don't love our aunt, Gladys. It's the misfortune of
many not to love their relations. Can you explain that mystery?'

'Perhaps they are not very lovable,' suggested Gladys.

'That's it exactly. Aunt Margaret is--Well, you'll see her some day, and
then you'll admit that if she possesses lovable qualities she doesn't
wear them every day. They are so rich, so odiously rich, that you never
can forget it. She doesn't allow you to. And Julia is about as
insufferable.'

'Really, Mina, you should not speak so strongly. You know papa and mamma
wouldn't like it,' protested Clara mildly; but Mina only laughed.

'It is such a relief on a day like this to "go for" some one, as Len
would say, and why not for one's relations? It's their chief use. And
you know Julia Fordyce has more airs than a duchess. George is rather
better, and he is so divinely handsome that you can't remember that he
has a single fault.'

Was it the firelight, or did the colour heighten rapidly in Clara's
cheek?

'Such nonsense you talk, Mina,' she said hastily.

'It isn't nonsense at all. Have we never exhibited the photograph of our
Adonis, Gladys?'

'I don't think so,' answered Gladys, with a smile. 'Suppose you let me
see it now?'

'Of course. That was an unpardonable oversight, which his lordship would
never forgive. He is frightfully conceited, as most handsome men
unfortunately are. It isn't their fault, poor fellows; it's the girls
who spoil them. Here he is.'

She brought a silver frame from a cabinet, and, with an absurd
assumption of devotion, dropped a kiss on it before she gave it to
Gladys. Gladys sat up, and, holding the photograph up between the light,
looked at it earnestly. It was the portrait of a man in hunting dress,
standing by his horse, and certainly no fault could be found with his
appearance. His figure was a model of manly grace, and his face
remarkably handsome, so far as fine features can render handsome a human
face; yet there was a something, it might be only a too-conscious idea
of his own attractions, which betrayed itself in his expression, and in
the eyes of Gladys detracted from its charm.

'It is a pretty picture,' she said innocently. 'The horse is a lovely
creature.'

Then Mina threw herself back in her chair, and laughed till the tears
ran down her cheeks--a proceeding which utte